harvester of eyes, that's me (vulgarweed) wrote in go_exchange,
harvester of eyes, that's me

Fic for Use_theforce_Em!

Title: Switching Teams
Author: rinnington
Recipient: The lovely use_theforce_em
Rating: NC-17
Pairing:: Aziraphale/Crowley in several different ways
Warnings voyeurism in a kind of cheating way, body-swap weirdness, terrible jokes
Summary: An unexpected mix-up helps Aziraphale and Crowley learn more about the other. *cough*
Also:: Big thanks to my nameless but wonderful beta. Happy holidays, use_theforce_em, I really hope you enjoy!

It all started one December afternoon (a Thursday to be precise) when a woman stopped outside the window of a pricey jewelry store to peer at the new winter collection, and a voice in her ear went, “Psst.” She’d never heard anyone actually say “psst” before, but it sounded right, in this particular voice. There was something about the shape of the esses that suggested that this was a voice created to whisper ‘psst’ in your ear.

There was a gentleman in a designer suit and sunglasses leaning against the window. And there was something about the way he looked at her that made her nervous. He peered at her from over the tops of the shades, and there was something wrong about his eyes, an odd gleam, and he smiled like a snake.

“Why don’t you save that money and donate it to a worthy charity?” he asked her. “I’ve heard UNICEF is nice this time of year.” He cleared his throat, and added in a lower, more sibilant tone, “Come on, you know you want to.”

She felt, somewhere deep within her, that this was not the way this conversation was supposed to go. Ignoring the feeling of unease, she explained that while she was certain UNICEF was indeed a worthy cause, she’d already been convinced by the nice, quiet gentleman down the street that she ought to make a purchase at said jewelry shop. She would have gone on, after seeing the look that came over his face, to say that she would consider donating at a later time, but he had already turned and was storming down the street.

“For Go—Sa—for fuck’s sake, Aziraphale, what do you think you’re doing?” Crowley snarled when he was finally directly across the street from the nice café at which a pleasant looking middle-aged man was sipping a coffee.

“No need to get upset, dear boy,” he said, leaving a bill on the table and carefully crossing the street. Crowley was certain he was moving so slowly just to annoy him, so he huffily marched towards the angel to be huffy at him in closer proximity.

“If you’re trying to build up credit or something, it doesn’t work like that, angel.”

“Nonsense, I was only returning the favor for what you did the other day in Manches—“

“That doesn’t count,” said Crowley, stiffening. “I thought you agreed we wouldn’t mention it, it wasn’t even a proper good deed, and stop smiling at me like that,” he snapped. There was little more annoying than one of Aziraphale’s enigmatic smiles.

“If you’ll only let me explain—“

But Aziraphale didn’t have a chance. At that moment, the two figures arguing in the middle of the street were suddenly struck down by ineffability and also the number 10 bus. There was barely a moment to curse before their souls fled to their respective destinations.

One went Below.

The holidays were always a busy time of year in Hell, what with all of the heartwarming miracles to botch, the new suicides to orientate, and the office Christmas party to plan. A bell rang as a more durable type of soul suddenly appeared in the middle of the office. Dagon barely looked up from his paperwork-laden desk to acknowledge the discorporated field agent.

“Humph,” he grunted. “Bodies don’t grow on trees, you know.” Well, as long as you weren’t counting the seventh circle.

The demon, who was regarding his surroundings in shock, suddenly turned and focused on Dagon. “I’m very sorry, but—“

“It’s no end of trouble, too. The hours I spend filing the paperwork and cleaning up the evidence, I ought to tell you, I really ought to—“

“It sounds terribly inconvenient, I’m sure. But you really should know—“

Dagon fixed the demon with a scowl. “Hah! What ridiculous excuse have you thought up this time, Crawly?”

“But that’s the thing, I’m not—“

Dagon snorted and pressed a button on his desk, making his office empty once more. Why couldn’t minor demons get it through their heads that he was busy? He was glad he’d lined up an extra body this time, as that Crawly fellow was always worth a headache or two.

One went Above.

The holidays were always a busy time of year in Heaven, what with hymns to sing, miracles to inspire, and campaigns to prevent the use of the phrase ‘Happy Holidays’ to undertake. Angels were required by Heavenly law to love Christmas even if the holiday didn’t really have much to do with Heaven when you got down to it. It was because of this that Gabriel was happily whistling carols as he rapturously tackled the paperwork that lay joyously in a mound across his desk.

When an ethereal soul suddenly appeared in his office, he smiled. “Merry Christmas! How surprising and fortunate to see you again so soon!” Gabriel wouldn’t get around to requisitioning a new body anytime soon, since it would be so sad to let the angel miss out on helping with all of the joyous work that needed to be done.

The angel did not return his greeting right away. Instead, he stared, and finally broke into a grin. “So He finally kicked your poncy arse to the kerb, did He?”

Gabriel’s smile spread even wider across his face. He was going to be merciful, since he loved Christmas so, so very much. “Good news, I think I’ll be able to fit you with a body right away! I’m sure I’ll be seeing you after the holidays, Aziraphale. Goodbye!”
Gabriel’s fist slammed down onto a button on his desk, and the angel disappeared.

Until finally they met again in the middle, or St. James Park, to again be precise.

“This is clearly your fault,” was the second thing Crowley said to Aziraphale, once he’d managed to locate the angel. The first thing he said was said in a language that defies the ability of any human language to attempt to articulate in sound or through alphabet, but roughly translated, meant, “What the fuck?” The second part was in English.

“You’re the one who had to start a row in the middle of the street,” said Aziraphale, who was paler and more drawn than usual. This was not, actually, due to shock, although he was in it, but because Crowley had decided sometime in the 18th century that the gaunt, romantic look paired with a lot of black suited him, and currently whatever had then applied to Crowley was suddenly applying to Aziraphale rather a lot.

“What are we going to do?” wailed Crowley staring in numb horror at his plump, well-manicured hands. “How am I supposed to tempt people when I look like somebody’s gay uncle?” Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, but the thought of his own body lecturing him in huffy angelic annoyance was a bit too much for Crowley. “What are you going to do? You’ve no idea how to manage a body like that, you’ll never figure out how to use it.”

“You’re panicking,” murmured Aziraphale in that way of his such that, regardless of the volume he used, it always shut Crowley up rather successfully.

“How can I not panic?” shouted Crowley. “I’m wearing a bloody argyle sweater vest!” With a sudden strangled cry, he wrenched the aforementioned sweater vest up, struggled for a few seconds to pull it free of his head, and then finally threw it violently to the ground, where it instantly caught on fire.

“Really, my dear. It was a gift,” said Aziraphale, raising an eyebrow. Crowley was distracted from his revenge upon the sweater vest by the gesture. Damn, but did he look cool like that. He resolved to learn how to raise an eyebrow scathingly as soon as he managed to get his own body back. “Listen,” continued the angel infuriatingly, “I’m sure it can’t be as bad as all that for either one of us. I don’t particularly want to trouble Gabriel again at this time of year, and I’m sure you don’t want any trouble from your superiors, so we’ll just have to manage until this all gets sorted out.”

Crowley glowered in response. “It is as bad as all that,” he muttered, but the truth of the matter was, Aziraphale was right. There was no way he was going to risk troubling Dagon again this close to the busy holiday season unless he wanted to be on permanent second bolgia detail for the next few centuries. “It’ll just be another few weeks, at any rate,” he said miserably.

Aziraphale smiled. “That’s the spirit. We’ll just go through our lives ordinarily, and the time will pass quickly.”

Aziraphale had been wrong many times before in his long existence, Crowley mused. He’d tried to go about his life ordinarily, and at first it wasn’t too difficult. As long as he avoided looking into the mirror too often, Aziraphale’s body was just a body like any other. He’d had different ones in the past, after all. He found his balance thrown off a bit by the extra weight he was now carrying around, and he was perhaps a bit less dexterous, but once he’d learned how to compensate, he’d found that aside from a bit of a chocolate craving at night, Aziraphale’s body was easily manageable.

He still spent the first few days without leaving his flat. It was easy to imagine the season would pass quickly, curled up in front of the television with a cup of hot cocoa. Even that he’d never before liked hot cocoa was easy to ignore, considering the wide variety of programming that was available to him. Reality TV was for Crowley what Ben and Jerry’s was for many, and that fact that this was a strong season for it did wonders for his outlook. Holiday specials of his favorite programs were always good for a few laughs, and he’d never quite gotten tired of It’s a Wonderful Life. Aziraphale’s body took naturally to sloth, and all things considered, it wasn’t such an awful way to pass the time.

Unfortunately for him, three days after the mix up, there was a knock at the door. Crowley managed to ignore it for a good few knocks, as he really didn’t want anyone he knew to see him like this even if they wouldn’t know it was him they were seeing, but at last he had to get up. He made sure to open it with his best scowl for the elderly landlady, and the spoilt arrogance of his drawled “What?” had taken centuries to perfect.

The fact that she smiled back regardless did little for his mood. “Well, hello there, sir, I’ve a letter for the young man who lives here,” she replied. It was the damn body, Crowley realized; it couldn’t scowl properly. Aziraphale could muster up a mean glower if any of his books were in danger of being purchased, and he could do huffy pretty well, but he couldn’t scowl his way out of a paper bag. Crowley’s scowls were practically a way of life, he’d trained himself over the millennia to inject just the right note of sulkiness into it, and now he felt somewhat at a loss. It was in a state of distress that he took the letter, closed the door, and began to read.

He swore when he realized whom it was from.

Aziraphale was at his wits’ end by the second day. He’d tried to make his best of the situation, and had even gone about his duties. Crowley’s body demanded sleep at night, but he’d opened shop early the next morning, actually looking forward to his day. His outlook had rapidly deteriorated that afternoon, when he’d been forced to sell a few of his books to a group of giggling young tourists who didn’t appear to be at all put off by the glower he was giving them. It was especially frustrating as he’d seen Crowley’s glower before, it wasn’t a bad glower, and all things considered the young ladies in question ought to have scattered before they’d even had a chance to browse the shelves.

After that he’d closed up shop, leaving a notice on the door that he would perhaps be reopening sometime after the holidays at a carefully unspecified time.

But perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, he reasoned—he still had angelic duties to fulfill, but with his business affairs out of the way he could afford to relax a bit. Humming Carol of the Bells to himself, he removed the uncomfortable sunglasses he’d taken to wearing, and changed into his terrycloth robe and a worn pair of slippers. He’d moved onto Hark the Harold Angels Sing by the time he was pouring just a dash of cream into his tea, and finally finished the song as he settled into his favorite chair and opened a book.

It was a new book, actually; stressful nights were generally reserved for comforting old favourites, but make-the-best-of-it nights belonged to keeping up with modern literature. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the modern stuff yet, as it usually took him a few decades of perspective to truly appreciate any work, but he did have the future of a business to be concerned about so he made it a habit to pick up a first edition of anything that might have promise. He doubted this particular book would become a classic, but it was an enjoyable read.

The hours passed with no sound except the flick of the page turning, the tick of the clock, the hum of the radiator. The teacup drained and the dregs in the bottom grew cold with the room, and Aziraphale shrugged a duvet closer around his shoulders. At this point, the leading lady of the story was involved in an awkward encounter with her female employer and the object of her sexual tension for the past few hundred pages that was rapidly becoming a sexual encounter. Aziraphale didn’t skim through the more intimate scenes most of the time, but he wasn’t particularly fond of them, either. In his experience, the author’s descriptions were always either laughable or somewhat uncomfortable.

This was no different, or, at least, it shouldn’t have been. But as the two young women writhed in adequately written passion on the office desk, something happened. To be more precise, something happened in a specific area of the human anatomy that he had previously paid very little attention to. It had moved, just a little, but enough that he closed the book so quickly that he spilled the cold tea dregs all over his chair. “Oh my,” he said, his face growing red, “Oh dear.” He really did know that Crowley made the effort, but it just hadn’t occurred to him that such a thing would apply to him like this now that he inhabited that body. He’d always had the parts, after all, but it was the hormones that really did it, he supposed.

He sighed, cleaned the tea up with a wave of his hand, and decided that he’d had enough of a read for the night.

Crowley’s latest assignment normally wouldn’t have been particularly difficult. A young American actress from a popular teenage television drama would be in London to promote a new charity for children’s literacy. She was becoming too decent a role model for young girls, so Crowley was to attempt to tarnish her image a bit. While he generally found one-on-one temptation was far too inefficient, he had to admit the wave of cynicism and disillusionment that her actions would cause was something he could only approve of.

He’d watched her for a few hours, scoping her out. She was bored stiff throughout the entire proceedings of the charity opening, that much he could tell. She wasn’t particularly bright, he could see that too, and although it was genuine generosity that had prompted her to lend her support, it was clear that she really didn’t have many interests beyond fancy celebrity parties. This would be far too simple. All he’d have to do was lure her into a club, get her piss drunk, and have the tabloids catch her at something embarrassing, thus permanently marring her good-girl image. It would take practically no effort at all, and then Hell would be satisfied and he could return to his self-imposed exile.


He was running into obstacles.

“All I’m saying is that Club Paradise has the best VIP room in the city, you’re lucky to get an invitation.” Her heavily mascara’d eyes rolled at this, and he added desperately, “I heard Paris Hilton will be there!”

“That bitch?” she exclaimed, tossing her long blonde hair extensions over her shoulder.

“I meant Jessica Simpson,” he replied quickly. She still didn’t look convinced, and Crowley could hardly blame her. The stupid angel didn’t look like anyone who’d have any idea what Jessica Simpson’s travel plans would be. He wouldn’t be able to stall her limo driver for much longer, and her bodyguards were already beginning to eye him suspiciously. There wasn’t much time, so he’d have to give it his all.

“Listen, sweetheart,” he whispered, placing a hand on her arm and leaning in, giving her the same smile he’d given to a million men and women throughout the ages, the same smile that could be traced back to a snake and a garden and an ancestor, only with an edge of desire and raw sexuality that had been perfected over the course of six millennia.

“Ew,” she said, pouting her pink lip-gloss covered lips haughtily. “Are you coming on to me? I thought you were a fag or something.”

Crowley felt that had he been in his regular body, his jaw would have unhinged itself in shock. As it was, he found himself gaping stupidly as the limo pulled up. The bodyguards seamlessly pooled around her with an unmistakable “don’t even think about it” glare, Crowley could only seethe and bless that fucking angel with every ounce of his being. He never struck out, so this unanticipated dent in his record was clearly Aziraphale’s fault.

Something had to be done.

Aziraphale had come to the same conclusion, although for markedly different reasons. The first time hadn’t been so bad; it had gone away on its own with little-to-no prompting, and the following few times he’d managed to get by with a few techniques he’d only heard of before—cold showers had done the trick a few times, and imagining one of Gabriel’s annual performance reviews had helped more than once, but he had to face the facts. They were appearing with increasing frequency. Crowley’s body was proving to be infuriatingly easy to arouse, to the point that he’d had to completely forego any books not written for children or by Puritans,[1] television in general, and about half of the people wandering about Soho.

The dreams were the worst bit, though, for causing unwanted anatomical reactions. There was the uncomfortable one about the Roman baths, he really couldn’t remember having done that to Crowley against the wall one of the few times they’d met there, but it seemed Crowley remembered it that way. He wasn’t at all sure what to make about that one involving three incubi, the Tree of Knowledge, and the Bentley, but by far that worst was that one about the Chinese year of the snake, a game of mahjong, and the Qin dynasty. Even with Crowley’s body’s preferences, he hadn’t been able to sleep for two nights after that one.

As little as he wanted to admit it, something had to be done, and he knew perfectly well what that something was. He’d bought a book about it next door, blushing furiously and grateful for the protective barrier of the sunglasses even if he knew he’d never be recognized, and now here he was, sitting far too stiffly on the dusty bed he never used with the book spread open before him. Human sexuality had never embarrassed him much, as it did some angels. It was a relatively straightforward act, a bit messy, presumably pleasurable although he doubted it had anything on tiramisu. But there was something about this that made his pale, temporarily-slender fingers tremble, his throat clench.

He removed his old, now slightly too big camelhair coat and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, revealing the flushed skin underneath. It—that thing between his legs that had caused this mess—had made its presence known about the time Aziraphale had actually decided he was going to do this, and he tried to keep his fingers from trembling and he unbuttoned and removed his trousers, folding them neatly on the bed. He wasn’t going to look at it or even remove the pants he was wearing; instead, he began to gently apply pressure where it was needed through the thin fabric. It wasn’t the act itself, or even that he didn’t do this sort of thing—it wasn’t his desire or his reaction, and this was clearly the most practical step to take. It was just that, well, this was Crowley’s, and there was something strange and not quite right about looking more than he had to.

It was about then, as he increased the pressure of his kneading and wondered how long this could possibly take that he happened to catch his reflection in the old-fashioned full-length mirror next to his dresser. “Oh,” he whispered, and watched the flush that suddenly spread down that pale neck below the collar of the shirt, the want in the pout of those lips, the expression, for heaven’s sake, it was all so—so—He couldn’t quite help the way the pace of his hand had increased as he watched the way the head arched back, exposing that same pale neck with each sudden burst of pleasure. Crowley—he looked hedonic and exquisitely, temptingly debauched, and all thoughts of courtesy and not looking more than he had to went out the window. A whimper caught in his throat, a whimper for fuck’s sake, and without a coherent thought to the idea the white button-down shirt and practical cotton boxers disappeared, leaving him to lay back against the bed, legs splayed, and hands gripping the shaft, frantically stroking until with a hiss and a low moan in Crowley’s voice, he came over his fingers, unutterably quickly.

He slowed the motions of his hand and stopped as it went soft in his fingers. He let his eyes flutter shut as he caught his breath and then remembered it didn’t need to be caught after all, and so he sat up, removed the evidence with a thought, and wondered where on Earth (one would hope) he’d banished his clothes to.

“Bugger,” he cursed, with newfound passion.

[1]Unfortunately, Milton was apparently a no-go as well.

Crowley, at the moment, was taking matters into his own hands too, however differently he approached things. After the particular fiasco with that bitch of an actress,[2] he’d realized that this situation could not be borne a moment longer. He would contact his superiors and insist- no, he would demand the return of his usual body. He’d demand Aziraphale’s body, too, if only because the angel had no taste and the thought of his perfected figure dressed in paisley-anything was unconscionable. He had secrets at his disposal, after all; he could wile a new body out of Dagon, but why even bother with that? He’d been living on earth for thousands of years dealing with the difficulties of everyday human life while the old fellow grew fat and complacent at his desk—there was no reason why he shouldn’t simply take his body back.

He could see it now: Aziraphale’s body had no style, but Crowley would more than make up for it with his lightning-quick reflexes. He would burst into the office and make his demands, then with an effective strike of his hand applied to the pressure points of the neck, he would knock his superior out within seconds, toss off a sneering one-liner, throw the new body over his shoulder and dive into the nearest portal back to earth as it came by, sealing it just before the hoards of demonic henchmen could capture him (not that they’d be able to at any rate).

With a rakish grin and a sudden high kick, Crowley delivered a stunning blow to his floor lamp, which proceeded to fall over. “Take that,” he said, and then whipped around to glare at the houseplants. They stood perfectly straight, but he shot them a suspicious look regardless and resolved to get rid of the tall fichus he was sure had been sniggering at him.

With this resolved, he sat down at his sleek, incredibly expensive desk and carefully penned out a letter.

Dear Adam Young, it began.

[2] Crowley would get his revenge a few months later when she’d decided she’d been hasty in a few matters and proceeded to befriend certain heiresses she’d scorned before, who straightaway convinced her it was no longer necessary to invest in undergarments. But that was neither here nor there.

“I’ve taken care of it,” said Crowley emphatically, sipping his wine with apparent pleasure. They’d met, at last, in the backroom of Aziraphale’s shop, not yet willing to face the public more than necessary like this but finally tiring of avoiding one another’s company. It was strange, of course, thought Aziraphale, to watch Crowley’s usual refined sips taken with his lips and his fingers curled around the base of the glass. But it was stranger to go for so long without his counterpart these days, and even if the body opposite him was technically his, the- the- well, Crowleyness still remained.

“What do you mean, taken care of it?” asked Aziraphale with a somewhat skeptical lift of an eyebrow. Crowley’s eyes appeared to follow the brow’s movement for some reason—this was strange, for Crowley’s face and the direction of his gaze to appear so open and unguarded, and he was surprised to see it so fixed upon himself. With a sudden flush he realized what the implication of that was.

“I just felt it was about time some people in particular heard from me,” Crowley said with a somewhat self-pleased smirk. He eyed his now-empty glass and poured a bit more, struggling to hold the bottle even more than usual with the change in the shape of his fingers.

“What did you do?” asked Aziraphale, finding himself gaping as he tried and failed to think of a way in which this wasn’t leading to certain inconvenient discorporation.

“I,” said Crowley, waving a forefinger dramatically, “wrote a letter of complaint.”

“To our superiors?” asked Aziraphale, breaking out of his gape as it simply no longer managed to convey the horror he felt.

Crowley deflated somewhat noticeably. “To Adam,” he muttered, and then frowned at the look of relief that must have appeared on Aziraphale’s face. “It was strongly worded.”

“What did he say?”

“I just sent it this morning,” Crowley continued, now somewhat sheepish. “I doubt he’s received it.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale swirled his wine and then took a sip, considering. “Well, I hope he’s willing to help. It’ll be a welcome relief.”

“Tell. Me. About it,” replied Crowley, sinking back into his chair in relief, and loosening his tie. Another flush and some inconvenient stirrings when Aziraphale realized what chair it was. What on earth was wrong with Crowley’s body, surely humans weren’t like this? Or else he’d be demanding a reclarification on some of Heaven’s policies on lustful activity. It was hardly their fault.

Instead he said, “It’s not such a bad body, that is, you know. I’m a bit partial to it, at least. Haha.”

“I know, I know, it’s great for you, I’m sure,” muttered the demon. “Not particularly condu- conducive to demonic activity, though. People look at you and see someone jolly and trustworthy and, and, avuncular no matter what I do, no one even notices when I’m trying to tempt them, and if I can’t tempt someone I’m going to explode. Metaphorically, of course. Or not. Who knows.” He grimaced, gulped the wine, and added, “You can’t seduce anyone for shit, either, I’m either gay or a dirty old man or, or, I—“

“Wait, what?” interrupted Aziraphale. “You’ve been ssseducing people?”

“Er,” said Crowley, looking a bit guilty. “Not very successfully?”

“I don’t- I don’t believe you,” sniffed Aziraphale. “In my body. You’ve abso—absolutely no ressspect—oh, dear, did I just hisss?”

“It does that sometimes,” said Crowley, waving a hand to show how completely unrelated to the subject this was. “I’ve had work, you know, they made me do it, what was I supposed to say, that daft angel whose defective body I’m in’ll get upset?”

“Defective? Don’ talk to me about defective, dear boy. I know all ‘bout, all ‘bout how this body is. Consumed with list. Lust. All you think about. More wine, please.”

“Not true. Slander,” said Crowley, pouring Aziraphale another glass. “’M way more slothful an’ proud than lustful. Here’s what I think,” he continued dramatically, raising his glass. “I think you just are used to bein’ just as all the other ones as me, nono don’t interrupt,” he added as Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, “You do all the other ones, sloth an’ gluttony an’ envy, an’, um, greed, ‘zat the same one as gluttony? But you don’ make an’ effort so now just because you think you can get away with it, six thousan’ years of repressed lust, just like wham!” The sound effect his hand produced on the table along with the wham! was particularly effective. “See?”

“Not true at all, just a bunch of, of hellspawn lies and things. Because I am not a narssssisss—oh, bugger. I wouldn’ wanna watch myself when I did it, s’what I mean.”

“A narcissist?” asked Crowley, after a moment. “Why do you think—wait, while you did what?” He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, and laughed. Aziraphale bit his lip. “You hypocrite! And here you were upset with me for trying to seduce—“ another fit of laughter, and then, when it abided, a triumphant eyebrow lift. “Kinky, angel.”

“You,” said Aziraphale, outraged at being laughed at and pointing a finger directly at Crowley, or at least as directly as he was capable of at the moment, “are missing the point. The point is, is, you like to look atcherself while you—do that. It, it turns you on, watching yourself. See. Tha’s my point.”

The look that crossed Crowley’s face at the moment was odd, odder still as it was his face, technically. Aziraphale giggled at the absurdity of the situation, but the look, so quiet and contemplative, he couldn’t place. And then he realized, as the slow, serpentine smile spread across Crowley’s face, that it was the look of a predator studying prey.

Crowley stood, crossed the room, caught Aziraphale’s chin in his hand, and held it, their faces inches apart so Aziraphale’s reptilian yellow eyes met Crowley’s blue-grey eyes. “You liked watching me while you jerked off, is what you’re saying.”


“Your body did, I mean,” Crowley corrected. “I am a bit of a narcissist, it seems.” His other hand suddenly appeared, toying with the belt buckle of Aziraphale’s trousers and just brushing the bulge that had appeared. “Then I suppose you’re a narcissist, too,” he whispered. “Unless it’s still me, and I just like watching you.”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale. He winced and banished the alcohol from his system before he could lean into the touch. “Sober up, please.”

“I am. I did, I mean. Back when you tried to call me a narcissist.” He smirked, and with a flick of his wrist the belt hung loose, undone about Aziraphale’s hips.

“What are you doing?” asked Aziraphale, trying to suppress the pleading whimper rising in his throat at the way Crowley’s- his hand just hovered over the spot that was beginning to ache with need.

With a flick of his fingers, the button and zipper came undone.

“It’s all right,” he murmured against Aziraphale’s neck. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like, to fuck me. When will I have a chance like this? And you—“ His fingers slid beneath the waistband of Aziraphale’s new pair of practical underpants. “You’re me, you just need something to take the edge off, you can’t help wanting—“

And Aziraphale did whimper. “You’re tempting me,” he whispered.

“Oh, yesss,” replied Crowley, the grey in his eyes glinting. “Here’s the part where you decide whether it’s worth resisting.”

“Please,” moaned Aziraphale. With that, the plump hand suddenly wrapped itself around his cock as Crowley’s lips pressed against his own. The kiss was frantic and forceful and desperate at the same time, and it was impossible to tell where the taste of the wine on his insistent tongue stopped being the smell of his breath against his face. Aziraphale found his eyes sliding shut as the hand on his cock squeezed, and he bucked his hips where they suddenly met the fabric of Crowley’s trousers and the shape of his own—dear someone—erection beneath them. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s neck to get the leverage necessary to thrust hard against Crowley’s hips, making Crowley gasp and break the kiss suddenly, and Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open and how strange to see himself there when he’d been thinking he’d see Crowley.

“Why,” he began, but Crowley shook his head.

“Bed,” he said. “I told you I was gonna fuck you, not get you off as fast as I can in the middle of your storage room,” he said with apparent difficulty, and before the sentence had finished, Aziraphale realized they were upstairs and he was still holding onto Crowley’s neck as they fell back onto the bed. He was planning on feeling embarrassed about the faux-Victorian décor, but Crowley was suddenly tracing circles with his tongue along Aziraphale’s neck and his shirt appeared to be missing, the second one this week, haha, said a small desperate corner of his mind.

He began to work on Crowley’s shirt buttons and his fingers kept fumbling and missing the loops but the buttons decided to go through anyway until the shirt hung open. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to do next, surely his trousers had to go, and oh, possibly shoes, too, but he couldn’t reach at the moment and suddenly Crowley did a thing with his hips that left him very distracted.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale in a very small voice, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the hips or because of Crowley’s tongue and the tiny metallic sound of the nip of his teeth. Something in the sound must have startled Crowley, as he looked up and paused like a cornered animal, then scrambled to pull Aziraphale’s undone trousers down around his legs. He struggled to tug the pants over Aziraphale’s erection for a few seconds before snarling and waving both of their clothing away with an uncomplicated sigil [3].

Crowley regarded Aziraphale’s cock curiously, for precisely one-point-three seconds, and then lifted Aziraphale’s leg up, and leaned forward and took Aziraphale’s erection into his mouth. Aziraphale’s frantically scrabbling hands found an old pillow to wring and Crowley’s hair to clench, and he made a sound that would have been somewhat embarrassing if he had actually given a damn right now, and then made another one as the demon released him almost gently.

“Later,” hissed Crowley, crawling forward and placing the other hand lightly under Aziraphale’s jaw, “later, I’ll show you what I can do to you with this.” He pressed another bruising kiss to Aziraphale’s lips and then before Aziraphale had a chance to lean into it, something cold and wet was touching him down there, and he squirmed away from it.

“What do you think you’re—“

“Well, it’s cold, I—“

“Just stop moving,” snapped Crowley, and there, that didn’t feel so bad after all, actually it felt quite, quite, and then he yelped and bucked his hips as another finger was there. It was strange but not a bad strange at all and the sensation was over far too quickly. He was about to issue a strongly worded complaint when,


His response was a gasp that bordered dangerously on a squeak as Crowley settled between his thighs and with a hiss of breath pushed himself inside. It ached, but wonderfully, and the look on Crowley’s face, even if it was a different face than the one he normally used, more than made up for the discomfort. Crowley’s eyes snapped shut and then opened wide as Aziraphale wrapped his arms around his back to draw him close and then finally there, that spot, and he clenched himself around Crowley as they both gasped for the breath they didn’t need at the same moment.

And somewhere with a flutter of paper, the curve of a perfect pair of lips, but not even a wave of a hand so much as a wave of a thought, the world righted itself again.

Effectively for Aziraphale and Crowley, it turned upside-down.

“Fuck,” grunted Crowley as Aziraphale realized that he was now looking down into widened yellow eyes rather than up into blue ones.

“Oh,” gasped Aziraphale, taking in that pale and sweat-drenched skin beneath him, that tousled dark hair and those pouting lips, the arch of that neck, and found that it didn’t look so different from another angle and a changed perspective. Crowley’s hips snapped forward with the sudden sensation before Aziraphale had expected it. “Crowley.”

Crowley’s hands had found the strength to shift just enough so the demon’s claws sunk into his back. “Angel. Will you fucking move?” he said through gritted teeth.

Aziraphale nodded, then felt a bit foolish after the grimace Crowley gave him. He hadn’t got to this chapter yet in his book, but he wrapped his hand around Crowley’s cock and stroked him, and his hips seemed to understand the cue, thrusting in time to the pulsing of his hand. It didn’t take long before some of Crowley’s muscles tensed and other muscles clenched and fingernails like claws drove deep into the skin of Aziraphale’s back- but he was beyond the ability to care as he came with a cry, watching the waves of Crowley’s orgasm ripple through him. He continued to thrust shallowly until with a sigh he collapsed against Crowley’s chest, burying his head into the demon’s neck.

A few seconds later, a hand threaded itself into his hair, petting him to the time of alcohol-scented puffs of breath that blew against his cheek.

“’Ziraphale,” murmured Crowley, shifting his weight underneath the angel’s body until Aziraphale rolled off him and curled up against Crowley’s side. Aziraphale squirmed closer until he could lean in to kiss him, and then stopped.

“Crowley? I like you. Quite a bit,” he said. From what he had read, this was the sort of thing one ought to say in these situations. It didn’t matter that it was true or that Crowley already knew and had for some time.

“Don’t spoil a perfectly good evening with being soppy,” muttered Crowley. “You know how I feel about soppy.” He grimaced a little but let Aziraphale kiss him anyway.

“I like you whether you’re you or whether you’re me, although I prefer you to be you, I think,” Aziraphale continued undeterred.

A sliver of yellow like the light under a door, and then it was gone. “I like you too, Aziraphale. I like you better when you’re not spewing sentimental nonsense at me,” replied Crowley. He paused, and then nuzzled a cheek against Aziraphale’s sweat-dampened hair. “I don’t mind you so much when you’re fucking me, either.”

Aziraphale only smiled, a smile that would have been a smirk if smirking was something angels were prone to do. It could only have been called a smirk when the arms around him tightened and drew him closer [4]. If there were any more words uttered in the darkness after that, neither would be quite clear on whose words they’d been the next morning.

At any rate, it probably didn’t matter.

[3] He forgot Aziraphale’s left sock, they realized later.

[4] For warmth, obviously. He was cold blooded, after all, he’d point out in the morning, and then Aziraphale would point out that he’d been Crowley for a week and hadn’t really noticed that much difference in temperature, and then Crowley would point out that Aziraphale was a git who clearly hadn’t bothered to update his bedroom since he’d installed it. All things considered, Aziraphale decided it would be a bit silly to be embarrassed at this.

Happy Holidays from your Secret Writer!
Tags: 2006 exchange, aziraphale/crowley, fic, rating:nc-17, slash

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  • Happy Holidays, Pinch-Hitters! (pt 1)

    For our final gift at Good Omens Exchange 2017, we've got a story and artwork as a gift for the unsung heroes of every exchange - the…

  • Happy Holidays, alphacentauri!

    Title: The Peanut Greenery Recipient: alphacentauri Characters/Pairings: House Plants, Aziraphale/Crowley Rating: G Notes: I had way too…

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    Title: The Sleep of Reason Rating: PG-ish. (Gen, Aziraphale & Crowley friendship) Summary: I kind of wove two of your prompts together a…